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Cool air hit my wet skin, knocking the wind out of my lungs. The bag was snatched from over my head, then thrown onto the floor with a soggyplop.
The man in the black robe opened the door, letting the water-torture artist leave before he stepped inside the room. “Congratulations, you’ve been cleansed,” he said as he draped a black cloak over my shoulders, then tied it loosely at my collarbone.
Black.
Not red.
My lips were trembling too much to speak. I was never going to get the chill from my bones.
I glanced down at my still naked body, covered in bright red trails where the water slashed my flesh. In some places, there were tiny trails of blood where the pressure had split my skin.
“There’s your way out.” He pointed to a door on the other side of the room.
There was still nothing but the red glow casting of the walls, and my eyes hadn’t fully adjusted to being out of the bag, making it hard to see.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, then walked back out the way he came.
I would rather have covered myself in gasoline and walked into a den of pyromaniacs than wear this fucking robe, but my clothes were soaking wet, and I was out of options.
One of the worst feelings in the whole damn world was wet socks.
Fuck wet socks.
I pulled them off and tossed them on the floor next to my other shit. I was keeping the underwear, though. Soaked or not.
The numbness began to fade away, and I started regaining the feeling in my fingers and toes again. My teeth quit chattering. I could finally breathe without feeling like there was fire in my throat.
One more door, and I was free. Maybe that was why they called the last ritualdeliverance.
I took a few steps, then stopped short at a swift movement near my feet.
Holy fucking shit.
Well, that explained why the man said he would leave me to it.Itwas a fucking red spitting cobra, coiled in a circle at the base of the door. I doubted it was a coincidence that it looked exactly like the snake on the Obsidian logo. The fuck was I supposed to do with that?
We learned about these things in eighth grade science. They were rarely fatal, but they seriously fucked you up.
It reared its head, spreading its cobra hood out with a hiss.
Shit, Chandler, think before this thing gets pissed off.
I grabbed the bag and stack of clothes off the floor, praying the weight of the fabric was heavy enough to trap him—I mean, it was a hoodie and sweats for fuck’s sake—while I scooped it all up, shoved it all into the bag and left that shit for the clean-up crew.
My adrenaline had my heart racing. My blood pumped through my veins.
Jesus. Fuck. It worked.
I dropped the bag on the floor and ran out the door, slamming it shut behind me.
I leaned my back against the door, closed my eyes and took slow, deep breaths.
What in the actual fuck had I gotten myself into?
